


i fought the british and i won

by mayor_crumblepot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Lots of Vomit, M/M, References to Drugs, Self-Indulgent, Sort of Happy, drug overdose, hallucination!wald, happy with a salty crust, like hardcore self indulgence bordering on mindless, not really an AU just kind of an alternative series of events, overhyping ed's mania and subsequent depressive episodes? me? probably, post 3x15, you know those mystery pills ed took
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 06:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11052798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: alternative series of events after 3x15;an argument with a hallucination, a slow descent into madness, a few broken wine bottles, and a very begrudging savior who doesn't know when to stop loving someone.if i cared less, this would be titled "gee, ed, how come this story lets you have two oswalds?"





	i fought the british and i won

**Author's Note:**

> _and the punch lines point at you_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _and all the comebacks in the world are in your head_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _and you can't say them until everybody leaves_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _and it's just you and your imaginary friends_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _ the kill — the dresden dolls _

Oswald is standing in Ed's office, glass of dessert wine in hand, taking languid sips with half-lidded eyes. He's still dripping, wet and stinking, but he's taken to wearing the fancy suit Ed has imagined for him.

"You really outdid yourself, Edward," he says, giggling, "the rhinestones are a nice touch."

"Shut up," Ed presses his face deeper into his book, underlining and scribbling— trying to find some kind of solace in something he used to love, "stop doing that. You're not real, you can't drink."

Oswald seems to consider the statement, seems to think about what his next move should be. In the back of Ed's mind, he knows it's just his brain trying to grapple with reality and delusion alike. "You're right, as usual," suddenly the glass is shattered on the floor and Ed is standing above the puddle, wine on his shoes and the taste on his tongue. He's never liked red wine, especially not like Oswald did. "Does the smell make you miss me?" Across the room, Oswald is now on Ed's desk, reclined like some sort of private dancer, despite the way his leg turns out against the will of his muscles. " _Quinta do Vallado Adelaide Tributa_ ," the figment pronounces the foreign sounds with ease, elegant as is possible in death, "my favorite. It's for Portugal, cost nearly $2,500." Everything around him smells like sugar and grapes, much more like a child's lunch drink than an alcoholic beverage; Ed gags. "The bottle is especially beautiful," Oswald is holding the bottle, smelling the contents with a wistful expression, "don't you think?"

"Wait," Ed reaches out quickly, barely registering with the sound of the bottle hitting the wall, shattering and staining the painting it's hit. The top to the bottle is in his hand and he drops it, glass bulb rolling over the floor, following the subtle slope of the floor down to meet the puddle on the carpet.

"Look what you've done," Oswald says, tutting softly as he limps around Ed, bringing the smell of wine in around him, "that cost more than the suit you're wearing."

"I know." Oswald shows up beside the puddle where he picks up a piece of the broken glass. He draws his tongue across it, taking the wine in before putting the whole piece into his mouth. Ed doesn't hear it crunching, doesn't hear the sound of it clinking against teeth, but he sees the blood spill out of Oswald's mouth when he lets the piece go, tongue torn and lips shredded.

"Why is this what you do, now that you have me back?" Like a gas, Oswald is everywhere but invisible; his cologne fills Ed's nose, makes it impossible for him to breathe without tasting that last moment they shared together. "Why do you keep doing this to me? Is one death not enough?" He brings the smell of rotting fish and gunpowder, the smell of the back of a squad car, piss and leather, the smell of an Arkham cell, sweat and tears and lingering vomit and blood on the walls, "You were supposed to love me. Why can't you?"

"You _know_ why," Ed roars through what may be tears, throws a vase on his own volition, "you know. You betrayed me."

"And  _you_ betrayed  _me,_ Edward." The blood on his lips looks like blush as it mixes with the water on his skin, as it drips onto the pristine white of his dress shirt, his tuxedo scarf. "Although, I think my cause was a bit more noble,  _love_ and all.  _You_ think so, too." Oswald walks over, invades Ed's space in a way the real man never would have dared to do so boldly, unless to provide a hug where he thought it acceptable. "In fact, you think it's a bit romantic, don't you? A man  _killing_ for you." He's hands on Ed's shoulders, he's breath on the shell of Ed's ear, he's nails on Ed's back— he's the tiny sound in the back of Ed's throat, something akin to a moan and a plea for help. "Nobody's ever done that for you, have they, Eddie?"

"Please, stop," he's gone still, wearing tears with little attempt to hide them, "you're wrong."

"Edward,  _dearest_ , you can't lie to a figment of your own imagination," Oswald says, too gentle and too loving, "you know that." 

"Oswald would never have called me that."

"How would you know?" And he's gone, all gone except for the lingering smell. Ed looks at the mess that's become of the office, the mess he's created around himself that is so painfully representative of his own state of mind.

This is now how things were supposed to go.

Ed leaves the house with the phone pressed to his ear, purchasing more drugs with the worth of a painting that used to sit at the top of the stairwell— the beautiful portrait that saw all their interactions goes to give Ed a few more. 

A few more, he says, and then he'll stop.

* * *

Weeks pass. Weeks pass and Ed is alone.

No matter how many pills he bites down and swallows, no matter how high he gets and no matter how fast his brain goes, Oswald doesn't show.

Ed paces circles around his office until the floor has a wear pattern, he walks and walks and walks until his legs give out beneath him and he falls asleep on the couch. Barbara comments on his state on one of her many drop-ins, asking him for assistance that he isn't prepared to provide. He rattles off steps to elaborate schemes, shares the information he's learned from being at the mayor's side for so long. It's enough to keep her at bay.

"I get that you're going through—" she stops, wrapping her fur coat closer around herself as if she's smelled something foul, " _stuff_. I get it, but you need to handle it. Soon."

"Yeah," he says, sitting in the center of the floor, surrounded by newspaper clippings and pictures from scrapbooks that aren't his to have pilfered, "can you leave, now?"

Ed isn't sure when Barbara actually leaves; he feels her standing over his shoulder, trying to decipher the pictures of Oswald's step-siblings and headlines about poison gas, about terrorism, about the seventh record-winning pumpkin to grow out of Metropolis. When he looks up to ask her to leave again, he finds himself alone and the sun outside to have fallen. He can't see the pictures on the ground anymore. 

Without much more thought, Ed falls asleep there, on the floor. He falls asleep, curled up in a ball at the center of his spectacle. At the right angle, the image is almost holy.

Almost.

* * *

It's Wednesday when he finally changes his clothes. The wine stain on the floor has started to grow mold and Ed is hesitant to try and pick up the shards of glass. There's broken records strewn across the room, pieces of irreplaceable first editions shattered on the entryway to the lounge; where he first kissed Isabella.

The memory tastes sour in his mouth— or maybe that's just his unbrushed teeth.

Beneath his foot, Amy Winehouse looks up at him from a cracked white vinyl. She's judging him and he knows it, he can feel it. Ed presses his foot into the record so hard that it breaks, cutting into him.

He hasn't seen Oswald in weeks and, at this point, he wishes the hallucination had never shown up to begin with. Not if it was just going to disappear on him. 

Ed isn't sure when his meltdown devolves from "throwing things at the wall" into "laying in bed with a bottle of wine and a tin of pills," but that's where he's at now. He has Oswald's favorite robe wrapped around a pillow, like something of an offering; a gesture that begs _the buried, dead, and slain— rise again._

By the time the empty bottle hits the floor and shatters, all but five of the pills are gone and those go falling to the floor soon after the bottle. At this point, Ed wishes he'd done further investigation to find out just  _what_ was inside of the little capsules, but it's a bit late now.

 _It's too late now_ has been his mood since he killed Oswald, this is just another instance— it doesn't surprise him anymore. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. Ed kows this all too well.

 

The first sensation that registers with Ed is the tightness in his chest. Like he's being held underwater, thousands of feet down beneath the surface, the pressure building up slowly until breathing is a chore he barely has the motivation to complete. He can hear himself rattling, but when he goes to swallow it's not enough; fluids linger at the back of his throat and while he isn't choking, he wishes he were because the sound is driving him up the wall. 

Even though it's his fault, Ed still searches for someone else to blame. Not just for the breath dying in his throat, but for everything; for his loneliness, for his slowly dissolving mental state, for the shards of glass on the floor. 

He vomits, after that. Somehow he finds the energy to roll onto his side when the bile jumps into his throat, but god, does it make him dizzy. Ed knows he should be elevating his head, he should be sitting upright and finding a bowl— none of that is going to happen, he knows that as well. 

Ed considers his options, considers the position he's in; half on his side, stomach full of wine and several fewer pills than it had been a few minutes prior, vomit dripping from the side of the bed onto the floor. The room still feels like it's spinning, even though he's been still for a while now.

With a few more heaves and increasingly difficult breaths, Ed realizes he's going to die. He's faced death so many times, in other people, that it doesn't terrify him as much as it disappoints him. This isn't how he thought he would die— half dressed in his own vomit. Regardless, here he is, soggy with sweat and bile and maybe even tears.

After a few more bouts of vomiting and a twenty minute long struggle with his shirt, Ed sees Oswald. He's fuzzy around the edges and Ed realizes he doesn't have his glasses, he doesn't even know where they are. It makes him sad— if Oswald is going to be the last thing he sees, he'd like it to at least be a clear image.

"Just imagine me clearer," Oswald says, and after a few seconds he clears up beautifully, "better?"

"Yeah," through the bile in his throat, Ed's voice doesn't sound like his own. The look that Oswald is sending down at him is borderline pitying and Ed welcomes it. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel Oswald's hand on his forehead, in his hair. 

"Didn't take you as the suicide type," he says, taking off his tuxedo scarf and using it to wipe the vomit off of Ed's chin, "I also didn't think you'd shoot me in the stomach, so."

"Please," Ed feels the tears fall from his eyes and doesn't make much of an effort to stop them. Emotional sincerity sounds like the best way to precede death, "that's not what this is."

"I know, Eddie," the hand in his hair is fleeting, the sensation just light enough to make it feel like it's barely there, "I know." Deep down, he knows he doesn't deserve this treatment. Not even from a figment of his own imagination, Ed knows he doesn't deserve to feel this comfort. He still indulges himself, still leans his head into the hand with a desperate need. "Don't lay flat on your back, you'll choke."

"Thanks," he says, sniffling and choking on it anyway. He rolls his whole body onto his side, avoiding the puddle of vomit slowly growing on the mattress. Thank god he won't be around to have to clean it. 

From downstairs, there's a noise and a voice, god knows who. Even if Ed wanted to get up and find out, he can't. His legs have stopped listening to him, especially since Oswald has shown up. At the core of his being, Ed knows he's probably just wiped his vomit with his shirt and is running his own hand through his hair, but he can't help himself. It soothes him.

The figment beside him glitches and shakes as the bedroom door opens up, filling the room with light that Ed had been trying to avoid. "Oh, dear," the figment says, looking down at himself and then up at the person in the doorway, "one of us ought to change," it snarks, detaching itself from Ed entirely. It disappears as another voice enters the room, around the music that Ed had been playing and had long since forgotten.

"Edward?" That's Oswald, real Oswald with the subtle accent and perfect weight on the syllables of Ed's name, "Edward," he's at the bedside now, shedding his jacket and his vast, rolling up his sleeves, "what happened?"

"You're supposed to be dead."

"I  _know_ ," he says bitterly, cringing as he steps in the vomit on the floor, glass cracking under his foot, "and I'm very upset about it. But I need you to tell me what happened, are you sick?" When Ed doesn't answer, Oswald reluctantly does some investigating, finds the pills and shards of glass held together by a sticker, "Is this wine?"

"Chardonnay," Ed barely gets the word out before he gags, keeping whatever comes up in his mouth until he swallows it back down, which takes a few attempts. He doesn't want to vomit in front of Oswald.

"You took a bunch of pills and drank a bottle of wine?" Part of Oswald doesn't believe it, thinks it's all too convenient, but the sweat on Ed's face and the unfocused look in his eyes say otherwise.

"I didn't mean to take so many."

"You're an idiot," Oswald says, starting to panic, "you might die." 

"An eye for an eye," he counters, apathy coming easy when he can't muster up the energy to emote otherwise, "it's only fair."

"Not when I'm  _not dead_ , you dense, self-centered, infurtiating—" the first thing Oswald does is use Ed's shirt to wipe his face, lifting him up from the mattress mercilessly. The room starts swirling.

"I'm going to vomit again," Ed tries, swallowing thickly and repeatedly. 

"I don't care. You're going in the bathtub."

 

Ed manages not to vomit while Oswald carries him, half drags him, into the bathroom. It's clearly a strain on him, his breaths heaving as he finally sits on the toilet lid and rests after getting Ed into the bathtub. 

The first thing he does, once in the bathtub, is vomit. With his head between his knees, Ed vomits and feels tears form just from the pain. Oswald turns the showerhead on, lets the water run the vomit down into the drain, efficiently rinsing Ed of his sweat in the process.

After a while, Ed has vomited himself empty and finds himself tired. Nearing death and vomiting will do that to a person, reasonably. The clock on the wall says five, and Ed can only assume it's in the morning, not the afternoon.

"Why are you here?" Ed asks, lolling his head to look at Oswald.

"This is my house, Ed," he frowns, reaches out to push Ed's wet hair back from his forehead where he feels for a fever, "I own it."

"You were going to kill me."

"No, but I  _was_ going to torture you," Oswald says with harsh sincerity, "but it seems you did that for me." 

* * *

"You always do this."

"Do what?" Ed is wrapped up in clean clothes, secure under the sheets of Oswald's bed. 

"You interrupt my plans," Oswald says, rubbing his hands over his face, "and I'm seldom angry about it." 

Like the phantom sensations in a missing limb, Ed smells the wine that's grown moldy in the office downstairs. The smell, in reality, is long gone; it's given itself up to the smell of wet fibers and rot. With the smell comes a tightness in Ed's chest, an overwhelming sadness. He misses the hallucination, he misses knowing what comes next in the discussion. If there were anything left in Ed's stomach, he'd gag again.

"You look like you're going to be sick," the sound of Oswald's voice feels far away, even though he's still perched on the side of the bed, "I'll get you a bowl." 

"Killing you killed a part of me," Ed blurts out, words strangled around his raw throat, "you were right." In the middle of his move across the room Oswald stops short, nearly loses his balance and stabilizes himself on the wardrobe. "I never considered the motivations behind your actions, I was blinded by my own emotions, it— it was a shameful time," every word hurts and Ed wishes he could stop himself, wishes he knew what exactly he was trying to say. "Though your actions were flawed, your motivations were  _flattering_ ," he manages, "you were willing to sacrifice yourself for my safety. I— No one has ever done that for me." Across the room, Oswald is still hunched against the wardrobe, so still that Ed can't see his breaths. The silence is terrifying and Ed struggles to fill it. "I apologize. For what I've done. You've always been important to me, even— even now. I only— I took those drugs to see you. Everything is a wreck, nothing is working out like it's supposed to and I don't know how to  _fix_ it and I don't know what I'm doing  _wrong—_ " Ed's voice gives out beneath him, breathing flat and shattering in his throat, the taste of blood and bile in his mouth. 

"Are you apologizing?" Oswald asks, only to be met with hesitant nodding from Ed. "I'm sorry, too. I was selfish. I wanted to make you happy myself, I neglected how unhappy losing  _her_ would make you. I could have made better decisions." 

"I've missed you," he admits, clammy as he tries to even out his breathing, "things are easier with you around." 

"Yes, well," when Oswald finally makes it back to Ed's bedside, he's managed to wipe most of the evidence of tears from his face, "of course they are." 

With the air cleared, Oswald feels safe enough to settle up against the headboard, sitting on top of the blankets he's wrapped Ed in. The books in his bedside table are exactly as he'd left them, his clothes still mostly undisturbed on their hangers and various places where they've sat for months, folded. Among the things he had left behind, Oswald finds new things in his bedside table. He finds pens, newspaper clippings, and a book of crossword puzzles. 

Oswald passes the book off to Ed with a pen, an understanding gesture. "Did you sleep in here?"

"Sometimes," Ed doesn't look at him, but he does eagerly flip through the pages of the puzzle book, "I tried to." 

It feels so right, sitting there beside Ed, watching him solve crossword puzzles far faster than Oswald can even read all of the clues. For a few minutes, Oswald can forget everything that's happened and imagine that maybe this is how it was meant to be from the start. Or maybe they needed to go through their individual suffering in order to properly understand how they fit together. Maybe they needed to be at odds so they can truly understand what it means to be at the other's side. 

It doesn't take long for Oswald to start slumping down toward the pillows, tired and so grateful to be back in his own home. He's missed his own bed so badly. "I'll start cleaning up tomorrow," he says, settling down and turning his back on Ed, "you're staying in bed." 

Everything feels fine, it all feels like it had before. Ed bathes in it, nods and settles in with his book. Oswald helped him, Oswald is here, and he's going to be here in the morning. 

Maybe that's enough. It's enough for now. 

Knowing that Oswald will be there when he wakes up, Ed is finally able to fall sleep. The house isn't mocking him anymore, isn't teasing him for what he did with an echoing silence and reminders everywhere. With Oswald there, the house is a home again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this since before the midseason hiatus ended. now that school is over, i actually got the chance to finish it. 
> 
> i have a lot of wips right now, this piece was supposed to be more gruesome, idk what happened. last hallucination!wald fic was gross and painful— i guess this one needed to be less of that. idk. 
> 
> title is from the kill, the same song as the lyric from the beginning notes. the dresden dolls make a lot of music i can associate with ed, kind of old school burlesque type, but rife with themes of mental illness and insecurity. 
> 
> i've been working on this for so fucking long i just want it out of my life at this point 
> 
> anyway 
> 
> thanks for reading, i really appreciate it
> 
> talk to me on tumblr; im [mayor-crumblepot](http://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com/)


End file.
